


Fall-through

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canonical Character Death, Hell, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10520919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Got a hole in my head, got a hole in my heart-- got a hole where my soul's supposed to be.





	1. Firewall

**Author's Note:**

> The quote in the summary comes from the song, Cope, by Gigolo Aunts.  
> I am not involved in the production of Sleepy Hollow, and this school is not involved in the production of Sleepy Hollow. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

It has to be a mistake. He's slipped through the cracks. Hell forgot about him. Someone intervened on his behalf. It's a miracle.  
There's unimaginable heat and pain, and darkness- but then, he's lying someplace soft. The smell of old paper and dry wood, fabric softener and his own body rises through his nasal passages. Before he even opens his eyes, he knows that this is 1994. He's twenty-five, and lying in his own bed, in his mother's garage. He has a second chance. It's all going to be all right. He's exhausted. He goes back to sleep.  
When he awakes for the second time, he fumbles around for his phone to see what time it is, for an embarrassingly long time, before he remembers that he doesn't have a phone. The clock on his bedside table tells him that it's midday. He changes his shirt. He finds a VHS tape, and delighted by the strange novelty of it, pops it into the VCR. It's the first season finale of The X-Files. He watches it all the way through, without fast forwarding through the commercials. The next thing on the tape is the second season premiere. He smiles at the empty room. He hadn't let himself miss this place. Now, he can enjoy its homey simplicity, the gentle pleasures of a soft, warm bed and his favorite TV shows. He can start all over again. This time, he'll do it right. He turns on his computer. It takes about a year to boot up. Even this pleases him. He opens a terminal, and then-  
Before he even touches the keys, he knows that something's wrong. On the inside, he feels empty and dry. He's forgotten how to do this. Of course he has. It's been years since he coded. He had people to do that for him. He laughs at himself. He has books. You never lose knowledge as long as you have books around. He picks up Using Assembly Language. A pulse of warmth sounds behind his ribs. He first touched this at the book store by the college. The 'Used' labels across its spine half peeled off like old skin. It had seemed to him like a sorcerer's grimoire. Now that he's seen the real thing, he can attest to the fact that there's very little difference. He opens the book, and from it rises the cocoa scent of worn pages.  
He reads. He reads. He reads ten pages before he realizes that it's not working. The words slip from his mind. It used to be that he could see the ideas working in his mind's eye. Once grasped, a concept was to him like a finger or a toe; a small part of his body that he could combine with others to do work. And he grasped things instantly. This world was his body. He knew it, and it knew him. They are now as strangers.  
It can't be.  
He reads a little further, now unable to recall what he read before, and feeling doesn't come. He's numb. He's dead, up there.  
No.  
“God dammit!” he yells, throwing down the book. It surprises even him. He hadn't meant to do that. He runs his hand through his hair, as though he could rub feeling back into his brain.  
“Fuck!” he yells again, again taking himself by surprise. “You couldn't just... throw me in a lava pit?” he says, looking at the ceiling. No, that's wrong. “Boil me in oil?” he shouts, now at the floor, waving his arms. “Feed me to animals? Stick a pitchfork up my ass? Really? This is how you're doing it?” There is no answer. “Say something, you asshole!” he laughs.  
There comes a knock at the door.  
As it opens, he feels a melting sense of dread.  
“Malcolm, honey-” it's his mother. His mother. She was killed by a drunk driver in 1999. He'd always suspected that he could detect in it the hand of Jobe, but had never voiced his suspicions. If this is 1994, she's still alive. She's there. She's alive. In a sweater set, holding the TV remote control. “Are you all right, honey? I thought I heard shouting.”  
“Mom. I'm just... having some trouble with this program.”  
She frowns. “Well, try to keep it down, okay, honey? I'm missing Days.”  
“Will do, Mom.”  
“Thank you, honey. Don't be so hard on yourself. It's gonna make you old before your time.” He smiles at her, and she smiles back at him. He wants to throw his arms around her. Just to feel that she's alive.  
He can do that later. 1999 is an eternity away. If everything he asked for is gone, she may live, yet. Maybe he'll be here forever, in poverty and obscurity, but with his mother alive.  
There has to be a way to fix this.  
He makes an appointment with the doctor. “I, um, hit my head,” he tells the doctor, “and since then, I've been having some trouble with memory and language.”  
Nothing is actually wrong with Malcolm, but Malcolm insists, so sighing, the doctor sends him to a neurologist. The neurologist's office is in the new hospital building. Of course, it's not new, at all, to Malcolm. It looks fucking ancient. The TV in the waiting room is like a monolith. It doesn't get cable. He fills out his paperwork, and is shown to an examining room. In a paper dress, he concentrates on the words the nurse tells to him to remember (“Acherontis, Jehovoe, ignei, aerii, aquatani, Belzebub, Demogorgon, Mephistophilis, Gehenna”), and is left alone to wait for the doctor, who's checking the availability of the CAT scan machine.  
The wait is interminable. Malcolm lies down on the examining table, covers his eyes with his arm.  
The door opens.  
“Acherontis, Jehovoe, ignei, aerii, aquatani, Belzebub, Demogorgon, Mephistophilis, Gehenna,” Malcolm recites wearily, his eyes still covered.  
“Oh, you're playing my song.”  
Malcolm's body snaps into a sitting position.  
Jobe's come to rescue him. Or kill him.  
But, then, surely, this is unnecessary, as Malcolm's already dead. Maybe this is the real torment. The hors d'oeuvres are over. It's time for the main course. This being Malcolm.  
He pulls the paper dress down over his knees. It won't go all the way. If he pulls any more energetically, it'll tear.  
I knew you couldn't leave me, Malcolm wants to say. I knew this wasn't over. We're bound together, you and I. You've tasted my blood. You've been inside of me. I've seen your true face. I knew-  
“What are you doing here?” is what comes out.  
“Just checking up on an old client. How are you adjusting?”  
“Piece of cake,” Malcolm mutters. Suddenly, he's aware of how cold it is in this place. He crosses his ankles.  
“Oh, really? And that's why you're at the office of this glorified faith healer, looking for a cure where no disease exists.”  
“What did you do to me?” Malcolm whispers.  
“A minor operation. Nothing too drastic.”  
“You... took something.”  
“You can get along without it.”  
“But it was me!” he shouts, “You took away what makes me me.”  
“That's not the only thing that makes you who you are, Malcolm. You have many other fine qualities. Your sense of direction, for example. Your ability to chew gum and walk at the same time.”  
“Put it back,” he says, his voice dead in his ears.  
“No.”  
“Put it back,” he begs.  
“Malcolm. This is hell. What do you think we do here?”  
“You can... cut me into tiny pieces, flay me alive, cut out my tongue- just, please, give it back.”  
“No.”  
“Then get out,” he says, looking at the floor.  
“Not without something to remember me by.”  
Before Malcolm can protest, Jobe's hands are on his arms. Malcolm shudders, remembering the last time that Jobe touched him. There's no crushing of bone this time, but a bruising grip, his fingers digging into Malcolm's flesh. He pulls Malcolm into a standing position, leans down, and kisses him. Malcolm braces himself for further violence, but it's soft. That makes it worse. This is what it used to be like. And all those times, Malcolm wondered if Jobe wasn't just doing his job- though, most of the time, Malcolm just didn't care. If you could share your bed with someone like that, who looked like that, who could look at you the way Jobe looked at him, you wouldn't ask too many questions. It was the one thing that Malcolm absolutely didn't have to know.  
Now, though, he knows. He feels it in Jobe's body against his. He knows, and it's terrible.  
“Don't go,” Malcolm whispers.  
“No?”  
“No.”  
“You want me right here.”  
“Yes.” He can barely speak.  
Jobe's laughing at him. And he should. Malcolm knows himself to be laughable.  
The paper dress falls to the floor. Jobe's hands on him are hot. They were never this hot before. His touch burns. He fucks Malcolm on the examination table. It hurts like the first time. As much as Jobe can make it hurt, he knows how to balm the wound. He knows how to make Malcolm want more.  
Malcolm's shaking, he feels like he's been cut open; he closes his eyes for a second, and hears Jobe speak. The words have lost meaning. It's only as the door closes that he realizes that Jobe has said Goodbye.  
The neurologist kindly but firmly says that she doesn't think that a CAT scan is necessary.

He's missed the fall term; he can re-enroll in school for winter, 1995. Even though it feels pointless, he goes to the college, anyway, and sees an advisor.  
“Well, you're in good standing,” she says noncommittally, “Will you be seeking financial aide?”  
He'd forgotten about this. What it actually means to not have money. “Yes.”  
“Hmm. Well, that's going to push back your re-enrollment. You'll need to submit your 1994 tax return in order to qualify. If you file in February, you won't know if your application has been accepted until April or May.”  
“Fine. So, I'll just come back here in February, and fill out the necessary paperwork.”  
“Oh, that's not this office,” she says, “You'll have to go to Financial Aide.”  
He goes to the financial aide office, and informs the man there of his intentions. For this, he's given a look that says “Why are you telling me this?” “So... come back in February?” the man says.  
It's vital that Malcolm return to school as soon as possible. On the way home, he doesn't just decide; he knows it. Maybe on his own, he's become stupid, but in a classroom, with a teacher and other students, he'll be able to hammer something into his head. He asks his mother to pay for a class, just one, until his financial aide comes through. He'll get a part time job, and pay her back.  
She's happy to do it.  
How he missed her.  
The next day, he returns to the college, and enrolls in a basic Computer Science class in the winter term of 1995. The advisor's seen his transcript, but doesn't bat an eye.  
“I probably already know everything on the syllabus,” he says airily, “but I think it'll be a good refresher.”  
“I'm sure you'll do well,” she says blandly, and he leaves her office, furious.

*

He gets fired from Radioshack for swearing at someone who can't tell him what kind of breadboards her kid needs for Technology Club.  
He gets fired from CompUSA for telling customers about Moore's Law, and refusing to sell five-year warranties.  
He gets fired from Software Etc. for telling people to switch to UNIX.  
He gets fired from Circuit City for refusing to sell televisions.  
He keeps getting hired because he leaves these off of the job applications, but it's getting wearing, lying about an illness in the family that kept him off of the job market since he left school.  
Finally, he applies at Barnes and Noble, where they look down their noses at his untucked shirt and Sunday school tie, and at Borders, where he's hired, as a seasonal employee. They put him to work in the cafe, and while he still can't parse commands in C++, to his chagrin, he immediately memorizes all of the drink recipes. As he falls asleep, he feels in his arms the motions of the espresso machine. Raspberry mochas and Irish cream steamers haunt him in his dreams. He wakes, feeling fizzy, a sweet taste in his mouth.  
On his night off, he drives forty-five minutes to get to a bar he once visited with Ansel. Ansel, of course, had danced for hours, with men as tall and handsome as himself. Malcolm had gotten very drunk, and almost hit his head against the urinal wall.  
Now, though, there is no Ansel. The other night, Malcolm drank half a bottle of Jack Daniels, and called him, only to be informed by Ansel that he had no idea who Malcolm was. After being told repeatedly and insistently that this was not a joke, Malcolm was forced to accept it. This means, he supposes, that Ansel won't go to hell, and that Malcolm won't have to live with it. There are, perhaps, some mercies to be had.  
It's loud, and it's simultaneously too dark and too bright. With Ansel, it had been all right, because no one was looking at Malcolm. It kills him to realize, now, what a relief that was. Now, there's no one to take others' attention away from him. He's caught. He feels himself being stripped, dissected, cataloged. At the bar, at least, everyone's either looking at their drink, or looking at the dance floor.  
The bartender comes over, and puts a drink in front of him.  
“Seven and seven,” he says, “From tall, dark and glowering, over there.”  
Malcolm doesn't have to look to know that it's Jobe. Suddenly, he can feel him. When he does look up, Jobe isn't there. He doesn't have time to panic, because then, Jobe is right next to him, breathing out breath that smells of wood smoke, saying, “Come here often?”  
Malcolm sips his drink. “If I told you you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?” he counters, sounding as bitter as he feels. “Not that I don't appreciate the free alcohol, now that I'm working part time in a fucking cafe, but what the fuck are you doing here?”  
“I can't chat with an old friend?”  
“You're checking up on me. Now, why would you do that? What does your boss think that I can do up here, practically lobotomized, in my mother's garage?”  
“Maybe this is a personal visit.”  
“You miss me? That's sweet.” He downs his drink. “You can drive me home. Now, I don't have to risk the DUI. We know what happened the last time I drove drunk.”  
“Yes, Malcolm,” he says lightly, “I'll take you home."


	2. Memory Leak

There are places like this in the kingdom of hell. Sad little corners where nothing breathes a new breath, and time passes by on a yellow wind of quiet despair. In this particular corner, though, is Malcolm's bed.  
“It's just as I remember it,” Jobe says.  
“Of course it is,” Malcolm answers bitterly. He takes a long draught from the bottle of whiskey that Jobe got him on the way home. He'd also required a candy bar and a full tank of gas for his car. Then, he'd asked Jobe for fifty dollars, because he wouldn't be paid for another week.  
Jobe remembers when Malcolm wore bespoke suits and handmade shoes, and had his nails buffed and back massaged by pretty girls in white hospital uniforms. He remembers Malcolm at twenty-five, the first time he was twenty-five, his darting eyes and constant frown. The person he has before him now is neither of these. The eyes in the twenty-five year old skull have seen enough for ten lifetimes. The blood in his veins would surely taste like eternity, death, and hell. It's disgustingly sentimental, but Jobe asks to prick his finger. Malcolm's drunk enough to let him. It's just plain old human blood that wells and clots. Nothing intangible actually has a taste. Malcolm's blood tastes like wine and oceans, though, and it's sweet to Jobe. Sweet, because no matter what's happened between them, it still belongs to him. With a soft expression, Malcolm turns his head, and kisses him.  
Malcolm's dead. This body's hell's fabrication. It exists only to cause him pain. To feel pain, though, it has to be capable of feeling all the rest. Even in hell's waking nightmare, one can have pleasant dreams.  
He falls asleep on top of Malcolm, his face against Malcolm's neck. He can smell the blood under Malcolm's skin. He dreams of the first creatures, slinking out of the ocean, and the parts of Malcolm's brain older than his warm blood, wrapped up in those that make up his humanity. They took something from Malcolm, but what they left will serve.  
Early in the afternoon, Malcolm's mother taps at the garage door, then opens it. She looks at Jobe. Jobe looks at her. He shakes his head. She closes the door. As she stands in the hallway, her back to the door, she cannot, for the life of her, remember why she wanted to speak to Malcolm.

*

Hell, of course, doesn't have watercoolers. But demons are terrible gossips. Jobe knows what everyone now knows about him. That he let the game run away with him. That he almost threw everything away, and flinched at the last minute. That he fell in love with one of _them_. In a place where depravity rules, this is truly obscene.  
That he's actually been banished from hell, indefinitely. That he's only been called back in order to be destroyed, because Lucifer is bored. Demons can feel everything humans can. This includes shame. He can barely look at Lucifer, smitingly beautiful in his white suit; the blood seething from his face like rubies. Once, Jobe was allowed to kiss his hand. The skin was as dry as a desert and as smooth as the marble of a sepulchre; it smelled of sandalwood, frankincense, myrrh, and blood.  
“Ah,” Lucifer sneers, “His master's voice. And here, I thought that your time in exile might make you bridle at taking orders.”  
“It was... too long.”  
“It was too little,” Lucifer says, then, “I heard that the little boy king's had trouble holding onto gainful employment. You must have spoiled him terribly,” Lucifer chuckles, ticking his finger back and forth, “But fear not! He's mastered the art of frothing milk.”  
“Malcolm's pride was always going to lead him to perdition,” Jobe says, and regrets it as soon as he does. Lucifer never says anything seeking agreement. He's always right, and he always knows it.  
“Pride's my favorite. It always makes people do such filthy little things.” He smiles, wrinkling his nose and showing his teeth. “You, for example, sold out your charge because someone you don't even like told you that he'd come to regard you as the help.”  
“Malcolm had surpassed himself; he had ideas above his station.”  
Lucifer's still smiling. That is never good. “You knew this, though, long before the little girl gave you the bad news about his loss of interest. Don't tell me about pride, my dear; I know a thing or two about it. And you,” he points a finger at Jobe's heart, “wouldn't have come back to the fold if a nasty little suspicion of your own hadn't made you think that she could be right, and that your sweetheart was straying.”  
It does no good to protest. “What would you have me do?”  
“What would I have you do? Why, that implies that there's some remedy to the situation. You used to be one of the best. And you know that I don't give compliments easily. The problem is, though, that you sat on the shelf too long. I should have had you out there earlier. Really, this is my fault,” Lucifer lays a hand on his chest, “Can you forgive me?”  
Jobe says nothing. If you're still, the lion might not see you.  
“When you were finally among them, you lost your head. I knew this would happen,” he laughs, “but it was still such fun to watch.”  
“What would you have me do?” He's sounding desperate.  
Lucifer frowns. “Now, you tell me- do you think he's the only one in need of punishment?”  
Jobe says nothing.  
“That's not the silence of contrition. I think your little vacation needs to be extended.”  
He stays where he is.  
“The 'Get out of my sight' was implied.”  
And that's what Jobe does. His blood is unspilled. His flesh is still attached to his bones. And everything is exactly as it should be.


End file.
